


Tumblr Ficlets

by Pretentious_Procrastinator



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, no editing we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 18:30:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13576446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pretentious_Procrastinator/pseuds/Pretentious_Procrastinator
Summary: Tumblr ficlets for Spiritassassin of varying lengths and ratings. Rating/scenario in each chapter title.





	1. You make me a believer - General

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this ficlet in response to edits made by oraftel.tumblr.com , particularly this one (fic also included in link): http://thewintermusketeer.tumblr.com/post/169865926884/oraftel-you-made-me-a-you-made-me-a-believer . There are lots of allusions to Believer by Imagine Dragons.

The battle was over: the stormtroopers had been held back long enough to allow another group to escape off-world, precious kyber and books and unbroken Jedhan spirit stolen away with them. ‘Dangerous prisoners’ (Amel, whose tenth nameday had seen them push an Imperial through a wall with the Force to protect their little sibling; Sister Bax, whose remaining teeth were used to rebuke stormtroopers for disrespecting the remaining shrines tended to in secret around the city; the smuggler who never shared her name but always shared her goods with those that most needed them) marked as shoot-on-sight. It was the Stormtroopers lying dead this time – a victory apparently.

The battle was over. But the war, oh the war, it seemed like it would never end. Baze could see it, stretching out before him, behind him, drenched into the very ground beneath his feet. Stained into the hands of his beloved, twisted around his staff as he prayed. They needed to keep moving, get further away from the site of the ambush, but he couldn’t bring himself to make Chirrut move yet, not when he could see the tightened furrows of pain on his forehead, the whiteness of his knuckles, even through the grime and blood and blooming bruises.

Chirrut needed to pray at times like this, worship and routine a comfort. Baze felt the same. It had been a long time since he’d turned to the Force, to the psalms and tenets he once clung to so tightly. But for Chirrut – he was a believer. Not in the religion they were raised in, he would never change himself so much to please Chirrut (not that Chirrut would allow it), but in Chirrut and the strength of _his_ faith, his love.

His prayer saw him pull out a small bowl, rag, and canteen, sinking like ash to the ground at Chirrut’s feet as he perched on a step. Once, back when this was simply a gesture of affection, he would’ve crouched. But now his knees couldn’t take the weight, the canon on his back weighed down by the numbers of dead linked to it with glowing strands of plasma, burnt into Baze’s vision long after they’d dissipated into the air. Gently unwrapping one of Chirrut’s hands from around his staff, Baze held it over the bowl balanced on his own thigh, wiping it clean in steady strokes.

“No broken knuckles this time.” To anyone else it sounded like an observation. But Chirrut knew what it really meant, knew that Baze’s hands were steady only through necessity, because Baze Malbus had not been allowed to be anything but strong in far too long.

“Maybe I’ve finally learned how to fight properly.” The hint of mockery in his tone, from the man who’d surpassed their teachers as an acolyte, hurt Baze’s heart: Chirrut was the best fighter he’d ever known, but he was fighting armoured soldiers, drawing them to him in increasingly large numbers as a distraction. Sometimes, there was no helping sloppy strikes, ones that still sent his opponents crashing to the ground, drawing attention away for just long enough to sneak another person through, but leaving Chirrut open to harm.

Baze finished cleaning Chirrut’s hand with a kiss, pressed to each knuckle in turn. Some distant part of him remembered the romance novels of his youth, long since left mouldering under a forgotten bed in the temple. Chirrut’s hands were hardly those of the protagonists of the stories. Swollen, blood staining them under the skin in purples and blues already rising to the surface, knuckles tough and protruded from decades of training and impacts. But they could be gentle.

Bestowing a blessing on a newborn, held out solemnly for children to paint, carding through Baze’s hair as he plaited in his marriage braids: Chirrut did it all. Sometimes, Baze felt like Chirrut’s hands said everything about him. Gentle, when needed. But more likely to be twisted into a rude gesture, waved vaguely in the direction of whoever had incurred his flippant annoyance, or more and more often, twisted into fists and open strikes. Dealing out pain, out death, as much as they handled it, never buckling under its weight.

But he could clasp Chirrut’s hands in his own. There was more to Chirrut than could be constrained by the touch of blood and flesh, more than the pain wrapped around his hands. Someone had once said that pain was source of all things. Sometimes, Baze nearly believed them. Sometimes, Baze felt it driving him forward, the creak of his knees and his back seeming insignificant compared to the hollow, collapsing feeling in his chest.

But he had loved Chirrut’s hands – loved _Chirrut_ – before they were shaped by pain, before it had intertwined itself so insidiously into their lives. He had lost one set of belief – in the Force, in himself, he wasn’t even sure anymore - but his belief in Chirrut had not wavered. He had not needed pain for that.


	2. Amnesia AU - General

They told him his name was Baze Malbus. The syllables sounded right on his tongue, even as he couldn’t be sure he was saying them properly, the name given to him on the name badge of the spare clothes that had been his only surviving possessions. He had more things now. Not many, but once he’d got a gun (and that hadn’t felt right in his hand, not when he was used to…something else, ill-fitting syllables rattling around his head as he tried to remember what had given him the calluses on his trigger finger) he’d found work.

They told him his name was Baze Malbus, and he’d made it into a name to be recognised to those in the know, those in need of dependable muscle for jobs against the Empire. He may not remember his life Before, but he was told it was them that had shot down the craft he was on. That was enough, to have burnt up his old life in the wreckage of a ship with no recorded flight history, even if he didn’t see them doing it to others every day.

They told him his name was Baze Malbus, but sometimes, in a forgettable market on a forgettable world, he would hear snatches of half-familiar words. No, not the words themselves, the tone. The teasing, affectionate tone heard in countless languages, a laughing voice calling out to their spouse, more familiar than his own name. He got the feeling that he had answered to endearments more than his own name. But he didn’t know, had no way of knowing, had not even heard snatches of the language that felt so much more natural than Basic, that he sometimes had to convince himself *must* exist somewhere else, because why else would he remember how to respond to questions, know how to change his speech depending on the rank – too harsh a word, but that’s what he’d become – of the person he was talking to.

They told him his name was Baze Malbus, and sometimes he had to convince himself that he was real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I don't normally write angst.


	3. Edging for "religious reasons" - Explicit

It was for his own good, his own control, his own advancement. His own good, his own control, his own advan – Baze cut off his own thought process with the groan that built in his chest, clawing its way out through his abused throat, already sore from his attempts at holding back his noises. His orgasm was cresting the same way, building and building at each touch of Chirrut’s hand to his cock, each crook of his fingers deep inside him, each pass of his tongue across his nipple. But then the foundations were pulled out from beneath him.

Chirrut drew back, the only point of contact remaining between them the press of his bony knees against the inside of Baze’s thighs. Baze felt himself pull back from the precipice, clawing for purchase without the sensations around him, _in_ him, struggling to control himself.

His pants sounded loud even to his own ears. Chirrut stroked his hands soothingly up his thighs, pausing at the quiet whine he let out, ensuring the sensation wasn’t too much for Baze, that he was still anchored by the ropes of his control. After hours of this, teetering on the edge in search of total mastery of his body, Baze was finding it harder to restrain himself, but Chirrut had learned well the delicate balance of testing him without making him come.

Even so, it was a test, one meant to push him, and it was after a time that felt far too short to Baze that Chirrut began his assault again. Chirrut had come earlier, the better to fully concentrate on Baze, but Baze could see him hard and leaking against his stomach again, and the sight was enough to somehow, impossibly, drive his arousal higher. Baze could feel himself falling, falling…

Chirrut stopped touching him again.

“That was far too close. Come on, Baze, my love, you’re doing so well. One more time.” Chirrut’s voice was husky but firm, no quarter given as he resumed his task with hands and mouth and teeth. Chirrut brought him to the edge once more, Baze’s voice lost beneath the litany of moans that dropped from his mouth like a prayer, like the well worn phrase ‘I am one with the Force and the Force is with me’, only he was one with _Chirrut_ not with the Force, but Chirrut was part of the force and they were all connected and Baze could feel _something_ dance almost within his reach.

This time, when Chirrut stopped him coming he didn’t stop touching Baze. He instead moved to straddle Baze’s chest, taking himself in hand with a sigh of desperate relief, jerking himself quickly, the sight and sound filling Baze’s senses.

Chirrut voice was choked as he spoke. “You can come when I do. But you’re not to touch yourself.”

It took only a few more strokes before Chirrut was coming, spurting over Baze’s chest, some of it hitting Baze’s chin, with barely a sound. Baze was close, so close, and then Chirrut’s hand dropped to twist at his nipple and Baze was gone, tumbling into his release, a sound too exhausted to be a scream accompanying his fall.

Baze blacked out briefly, yanking himself back to consciousness with the same stubbornness that had originally built his physical endurance out of a simple refusal to have to stop reading once it became night. To the side of him Chirrut was stretching, limp and smiling.

“That’s the best you’ve done yet! Practise again tomorrow?”

Despite himself, Baze couldn’t help but wince. “Maybe the day after,” he replied, burrowing his face into Chirrut’s chest. Chirrut’s chuckle vibrated beneath him, and a hand carded through his hair.

“Ok, my love.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh, this is more my usual thing.


End file.
